Elementary, My Dear Blakeney
by SherlockianGirl
Summary: Through a series of unfortunate and highly improbable events, Sir Percy Blakeney meets the famous Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Later, when a brutal murder is reported, Sir Percy wants to help solve the case. Holmes would rather him not. SP/SH PARODY!
1. Of Horse Races and Hansom Cabs

**A SCARLET PIMPERNEL / SHERLOCK HOLMES CROSSOVER...PARODY STYLE!  
**

_**I am probably committing a literary felony by writing this, but I care not. The very idea (thanks go to BaronessOrc for mentioning such a crossover) strikes me as so hilarious, that I thought that I might as well write a parody out of it. Plus Blakeney and Holmes are my favorite literary characters. OF ALL TIME.  
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_**And, it should be noted, that Holmes never said the exact phrase "Elementary, my dear Watson" in Doyle's stories. But for the sake of this popular phrase, I'm using it as part of my story's title. I KNOW it's not canon. But, then again, neither is this story. 'Tis a parody, after all.  
**_

_**I own neither Sir Percy Blakeney nor Sherlock Holmes (or any other character here), as they belong to their owners, Baroness Orczy and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**_

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* * *

**_

It started out as a simple horse race. Sir Percy Blakeney owned that he could beat Lord Tony Dewhurst and Sir Andrew Ffoulkes in a gallop through the woods surrounding Richmond at midnight in a rainy lightning storm. Of course, Blakeney also owned that he was rather bored at the moment and felt a contest of manliness would possibly alleviate said boredom, because, he drawled, "This demmed English weather has delayed my latest foray into France to free five faultless Frenchies from frightful ferocity."

Ffoulkes and Dewhurst heartily agreed to the challenge. Anything was better than Blakeney's sudden obsession with alliteration.

And so they met in a clearing behind Richmond, the late moon waxing high in the heavens.

"No cheatingggg!" Blakeney sang, as he leapt on the back of his massive, sorrel horse. "And ready, set…"

"Wouldn't dream of it, old chap," Sir Andrew rejoined with a laugh, dumping a sack of sugar cubes on the ground before Blakeney. Sir Percy's horse, whose favorite treat was, in fact, sugar cubes, immediately settled into decimating the pile.

"CURSES, ANDREW!" Sir Percy yelled as his two companions shot off for the darkened woods at breakneck speed. "Demmed horse, hie!" With a swift kick from his master, the sorrel was finally off, a mere fifty yards behind his companions.

"We're doomed, Ffoulkes!" Lord Tony shouted with a glance over his shoulder. Percy was swiftly gaining, his eyes ablaze, his jaw set, his eyeglass swinging majestically in the wind. It was quite a picture, really, except for the fact that Blakeney seemed rather vengeful at present.

"Aye, and what is he going to do to us, eh, Tony?" Ffoulkes grinned, cracking his crop on his horse's flanks.

"Disguises!" Blakeney threatened, now only ten yards back. "I shall make you wear the most horrid costumes possible on our next mission!"

"Oh, heavens! I quake in fear!" Lord Tony yelled back. "What? You'd make us dress as French guards again?"

"No," Sir Percy smirked, as he came to gallop alongside the pair. "As women." And with that he surged ahead with an inane laugh, his horse speeding on into the black woods.

But his closest friends were not to be put off. They split up around Blakeney, entering the woods at different angles. Sir Percy galloped on the wide dirt road through the trees, and had begun singing a delightful little ditty as he rode:

"Home! Home on the Range! Where the- BLAST IT, TONY!" Lord Tony had leapt from the foliage at Blakeney's right, cut his leader off, and cantered back into the woods. Percy could not believe the nerve of that man, interrupting his favorite riding tune. "TONY, YOU LITTLE CHEAT! You can't go roaming around in the woods and pop out like that! RIDE ON THE DEMMED PATH!"

At least Ffoulkes hadn't-

"Hie!" Came Sir Andrew with a shout, reining his horse through the bushes and equally cutting Blakeney off before disappearing once again into the musty foliage.

Blakeney was considering whether to conclude the race as an honest gentleman or throw all virtue aside and beat his dishonest friends at their game, when he heard the most unusual noise. It sounded like…

Cobblestones.

Cobblestones beneath his horse's hooves. Sir Percy started as his gaze shot to the ground, and beheld a widening path of paved stone that spread into the woods on either side. The air had thickened considerably and smelled of black smoke and smoggy streets. He lifted his head and gave a cry of surprise, as his horse was suddenly free of the shadowy forest behind.

He found himself surrounded by the dark streets of some strange, dirty city. Smokestacks spewed ashen fumes into the night sky as gas lanterns glowed eerily from both sides of the street. People milled about various shops and buildings, and in such strange attire too! Sir Percy blinked, and then cast a glance backward. It was if the woods had never existed. Behind stretched the same road he was now on, the farthest reaches of it swallowed up in the night fog.

"Excuse me, sir," Sir Percy inquired of a passing man. "What is the name of this city?"

The man looked him over with an unpleasant glance. "It's London," he growled. "What else would it be?"

_London? _

Sir Percy laughed. "Tut, my good man, I've been in London many a time and _this _is not London!"

"I tell you it is, _sir_," the man insisted grouchily.

"Nuh-uh," Percy countered.

"Uh-huh."

"Nuh-uh!"

"IS!"

"ISN'T!"

"IS!"

"How's that?" Blakeney snapped, folding his arms across his chest.

The man pointed to a sign at Sir Percy's left, which, aptly, read, "Welcome to London."

"What…year is it?" Percy whispered, his blue eyes widening.

"Heavens, man! It's 1883!"

"Sink me," Percy choked, his blue eyes now the size of Marguerite's favorite china plates.

"What did you say?" the man asked, cocking his head to the side.

"I said 'Sink me'," Sir Percy retorted, his good humor finally waning.

"Sink you? How the deuce am I supposed to do that?"

Blakeney rolled his eyes. "It's an expression, my dear man."

"Sink you where? A river? A lake? The ocean?" the man continued.

"IT'S A FIGURE OF SPEECH, YOU ANNOYING LONDONER!"

And with that, Sir Percy kicked his mount into a canter and shot off down the darkening streets. One by one, the gas lamps in the shop windows went out as the milling crowds lessened to one or two lonely stragglers. The night was old, and as Blakeney rode desperately on, no building or street recalled to memory the city he knew so well.

And because his attention was elsewhere, Sir Percy didn't see it coming. From an almost invisible corner, a hansom cab rattled around the turn just as Blakeney's horse reached the intersection. His mount collided with the beast pulling the cab, sending the unfortunate Blakeney flying over his horse's head before he struck the cobblestones in a heap of well-tailored frou-frou.

Two well-dressed gentlemen in frock coats leapt hastily from the hansom, one exclaiming, "What the deuce was _that_?"

"It appears we have struck a man, Watson," his companion answered mechanically.

"Is he…_dead?" _Watson whispered, his eyes wide.

"Well, because he is standing presently, I would say not."

Sir Percy had indeed staggered to his feet before he immediately collapsed to the ground once more, this time quite unconscious.

"He looks quite unconscious, Holmes," Watson noted.

"An excellent observation, my dear fellow," Holmes replied, rolling his eyes.

"Eaaagh," Sir Percy added.

"Well, we can't leave this poor fellow lying in the street," the man named Holmes concluded, tapping his foot.

"We should probably help him," Watson mused.

"You _are_ a doctor," Holmes conceded impatiently.

"Eaaaaagh," Blakeney agreed.

And so, because Blakeney had not cheated in the contest of manliness, thus unintentionally traveling 91 years into the future, and thus crashing into the hansom cab of two most distinguished Londoners, he was about to begin a most singular adventure much different than any he had ever known.

And Mr. Sherlock Holmes was, unfortunately, about to learn the meaning of the word "fop."


	2. Of Cravats and Catchphrases

_**I assure you, that it is out of true love of these characters that I will make fun of them so much.**_

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**_"Hum. It seems our unfortunate friend is most resilient to your smelling salts, Watson."

"How utterly strange! What would you suggest, Holmes?"

"Perhaps you should slap him."

Sir Percy Blakeney's pleasant dream of Chauvelin wearing a six-foot pink cravat was suddenly, and quite rudely, interrupted. "GAD!"

"Perhaps not _that _hard, Watson."

Sir Percy leapt from the couch and was on his feet in an instant. "Zounds! Where am I?" he cried, staggering in mindless circles about the room. "What news from France? Did I miss the Prince of Wales' garden party? Where are Ffoulkes and Tony? Did I win the horse race? Who are you? Where am I? Where is --"

"Good heavens, Watson! How hard did you hit him?" Holmes exclaimed, clasping his hands behind his back and beginning to pace in a wide circle about the most unfortunate Englishman.

Then Percy happened to look down.

_"WHERE IS MY CRAVAT?!" _

Indeed, his lacy accessory had mysteriously vanished. Sir Percy's eyes bugged as he stared at the empty space over his chest, devoid of all cravat-like activity.

"Excuse me?" Watson asked, tweaking his moustache in a puzzled manner. His eyebrows furrowed in deep thought as he stared at the curious stranger from his armchair.

"My…my cra…crava…my cravat…is…is….ha ha hee ahhh!" Blakeney began laughing hysterically.

"I believe he is in hysterics," observed the ever-sharp Watson.

"Quite so," Holmes agreed. He stopped his thoughtful pacing and suddenly faced the distressed Blakeney. "Please, calm yourself, my good sir! Do take a seat, if you will."

Blakeney collapsed in a heap onto the couch, his blue eyes still impossibly huge.

"Now," Holmes began, in his usual businesslike tone as he settled himself in a chair opposite the newcomer. "What hapless calamity has brought you here to forth in such a manner of horrid happenstance that you have lost all proper use of your usual assumed faculties?"

Sir Percy blinked. "What?"

"Now, see here, Holmes," Watson interjected, casting a sympathetic glance at Blakeney. "Don't scare the poor chap with your smarty pants grammar. Let us be _simple _about this."

Holmes glowered at the suggestion, but gave his companion a thin smile in consent. "Alright, Watson. Have it your way. Ah…Mr.…?" and here he turned to the slowly recovering Englishman.

"_Sir_ Percy Blakeney, at your service," the young man emphasized, his gaze flicking suspiciously over the two characters opposite him.

"Fine. Fine. Sir Percy. May I humbly ask you," Holmes hesitated, glancing sideways at Watson.

Watson only nodded. "Make it simple," the doctor repeated.

Holmes sighed and fixed Blakeney with an earnest gaze. "My dear fellow, what is your _deal_?"

"Pardon, my good chaps," Percy answered, his head cocked to the side. "But I am not at all familiar with your strange new London slang. You see, I-"

"_What…is…wrong with you?" _Holmes clarified further, his patience waning.

"To begin with," Sir Percy began, nonchalantly smoothing the fine lace of his sleeves and taking a deep breath, "I'm hopelessly lost in London in the year 1883 because I was in a horse race with my two cheating friends and stayed on the path like the proper gentlemen following the rules and so ended up here out of nowhere and this irksome London man in a funny hat would not help me in the least so I rode off in a fury even though I still didn't know where I was going and I believe I hit something and went unconscious and was woken up from a rather humorous dream by your little friend here and am now in a strange apartment when I should be back home and preparing a trip to France to save innocent aristocrats from the guillotine and the terrors of the French Revolution but now I cannot since I'm _here, _91 years into the future WITHOUT A CRAVAT, WHAT?"

"The poor fellow must be in utter shock," Holmes sighed as he meticulously lit his pipe and began puffing it. "Alright, then, let us start from the beginning. I am Sherlock Holmes, London's only consulting detective and consummate know-it-all. This is my faithful sidekick, Dr. John Watson, who incidentally, _is_ a doctor and quite handy with a revolver."

"Did you not hear what I just said, my good sir?" Percy managed through clenched teeth.

"Watson and I were just returning from a trip to Scotland Yard," Holmes continued unaffectedly as he stared at the ceiling. "When we heard a most horrendous thud outside our hansom cab. You, my dear fellow, had collided your horse with ours and landed quite on the other side of the street. From there, we took you into our care and here you are at present."

Holmes reached suddenly within the pocket of his coat and withdrew an item of lace. "Watson found this in the street near the cab. I believe this is yours, though heaven knows why-"

"MY CRAVAT!" Percy squeaked as he snatched the beloved article from Holmes' hand. He swiftly tied it back on and busied himself lovingly tucking it in and fluffing it appropriately.

Watson and Holmes exchanged a puzzled glance. "Your _cravat_?" Holmes inquired dubiously.

Sir Percy didn't look up from his cravat-poofing activities. "Yes, my dear man, my cravat."

"I thought that was a doily!" Watson gasped, his eyes wide in shock.

"A _WHAT?_" Blakeney's blue eyes flashed up to meet the doctor's angrily.

"You cannot possibly think _that _is a cravat," Holmes chuckled in spite of himself.

"Of course it is! Are you blind, my dear fellow?" Blakeney snapped indignantly, continuing to adjust the lace about his neck.

"You must be confused, you poor chap," Dr. Watson consoled kindly, reaching over to pat the Englishman's knee. "_This_," and here he gestured to the neatly-tied cloth at his throat, "is a cravat."

_"That?_" Sir Percy laughed suddenly. "That…that is…Sink me! It's _monstrous_!"

"Sink _what?_" Watson asked, taken aback at the odd phrase.

"Sink _me_," Sir Percy repeated with a frown.

"Why on earth would I want to do that?"

"Do what?"

"Sink you."

"Sink me?"

"Yes, sink you."

"No, I said 'sink me'."

"Yes, I know. But why?"

"Because I said the demmed thing."

"But why sink you?"

"What do you mean? You don't have to do anything!"

"But you said 'sink me'!"

"Yes, you demmed doctor! I did!"

"But why?"

"ARGH!" Sir Percy exclaimed, burying his face in his hands.

Watson turned to his companion, who was staring amusedly at the strange Englishman. "Holmes, I recommend we question him as to his history. It must be a traumatic one indeed, for I believe the man's completely suicidal. He wishes to be drowned!"

"Yes," Sir Percy agreed in a muffled voice, his face still covered by his hands. "Someone…please…kill me."


	3. Of Intuition and Inspectors

Dr. Watson leaned toward Sir Percy with a gentle smile. "Please, Sir Percy, would you tell us all about how you-"

"You were in France last week, were you not, Sir Percy?" Mr. Sherlock Holmes asked suddenly, his keen gaze continuing to peruse the young man before him.

Blakeney blinked and looked the detective over suspiciously. "Yes," he answered cautiously. "But how-"

"I shall tell you," Holmes interrupted eagerly, rubbing his hands together.

"Here we go again," Watson muttered, rolling his eyes.

Sherlock Holmes threw his companion a sharp look. "Don't roll your eyes, Watson. You're just jealous of my skills."

Watson mumbled something that probably wasn't very nice, which no one, thankfully, overheard.

"Ahem," Holmes drew a deep breath as if he was about to talk for a very long time. Which, in fact, was exactly what he was about to do. "I might note that you are a year or two on the right side of thirty, an intimate friend of the Prince of Wales, you have a perpetually inane laugh, you are from the year 1792 (as of a few hours ago), you live in a very large mansion in Richmond, England, and your worst enemy goes by the name of Citizen Chauvelin."

Sir Percy let out a good, solid, absolutely British, "DAMN!"

Watson rolled his eyes even harder.

Percy shook his head in wonder. "Odd's life, my man, it is as if you have read of my life somewhere! I'll be damned, sir, but lud! You must indeed read minds!"

Watson snorted and began to say something, before Holmes quickly shushed him.

"Is there anything else?" Blakeney asked curiously.

"Ah, but of course. Two days ago you bought a new cravat just before you spilled ketchup on it, after which you bought another one for £16 at three o'clock on a Monday afternoon on Haver Street in London from a man named Charles Wentworth who, incidentally, has nine children and two wives and enjoys long walks on the beach at midnight."

"DEM IT ALL, but you are correct!" Percy cried.

"And you have a cat named Lord Muffin."

"I have a cat?"

"Well, it's your wife's, technically."

"Lud! And how do you know all this, my dear fellow?"

Holmes opened his mouth to answer, but caught sight of Watson by the bookshelf, who, upon noticing that Holmes had noticed him, suddenly fell into a fit of overly dramatic coughing. Watson's hand slipped on the black book he was reaching for and it tumbled to the ground in a shower of fluttering pages.

"What's this?" Sir Percy inquired, trying to read the cover of the sable novel from under the books that had fallen atop it. "I say, who's this Baroness Orczy?"

And just like that, Holmes had snatched the book up and restored it to the bookshelf. "You are _so _dead, Watson," he growled under his breath, but his friend did not look too overly concerned at the matter.

Because Watson did not like anachronistic breaches in literature. Now Percy would find out how Holmes knew so much about-

This might have been a pleasant little episode in which the entire literary world turned upside down, but alas! A necessary plot twist occurred and there was a sharp knock at the door.

Holmes turned on his heel and strode quickly across the room. But not quickly enough. The wooden door flew open and smacked Holmes to the ground as a uniform-clad man rushed in.

"Holmes!" the officer cried, and then caught sight of the doctor. "Watson, I say, is Holmes here?"

"I believe he's resting on the floor for a bit, my dear chap," Sir Percy answered with a laugh.

"Enuuugh," Holmes mumbled from behind the door.

"Holmes! Whatever are you doing behind the door?"

Sherlock Holmes slowly recovered himself. "Checking for dust bunnies, Lestrade. Now. What is it you wish to tell me?"

Inspector Lestrade lowered his voice dramatically and began in a low voice.

"I'm afraid I can't hear you, m'dear fellow, what?" Blakeney drawled from the couch.

Lestrade frowned. "But it's not as fun when you say it normally."

Blakeney smiled his inane little smile. "Well, sir, when you come in knockin' people around with doors, it must be demmed important!"

"I'm sorry, but who are you?" Lestrade countered stubbornly.

"A strange little man we hit with our hansom cab," Holmes answered quickly, rolling his eyes. "Now, Lestrade, spit it out."

"_Murder_, Mr. Holmes!" he whispered.

"What?" Blakeney called again.

"I SAID THERE'S BEEN A MURDER, YOU PERSISTENT STRANGER!"

"Ah, demmed inconvenient things, murders."

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_**I do not wish to plagiarize our beloved Baroness, so all credit for the above direct TSP quotes goes to Orczy.**_


	4. Of Fashion and Forced Entry

"So, you fellows, when do we leave?" Percy seemed to perk up at the notion of leaving the stuffy little room on a mission of intrigue.

Holmes glanced sharply at Watson, then Lestrade. He cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Please, Sir Percy, I would hate to trouble you. Just…ah…stay here and we shall be back presently."

Percy rose from the couch with a laugh. "Nonsense, sir. I shan't mind at all."

"Err…I would rather you not come, Sir Percy. It's a rather delicate matter, you understand," Sherlock Holmes was saying as he rushed eagerly about, gathering his coat and the revolver from the drawer, and directing Watson to do the same. Lestrade had dismissed himself to wait in the carriage outside.

"I should be pleased to help in whatever way I can," Blakeney persisted.

"I have plenty of help already, thank you," Holmes answered quickly.

"But I wish to come."

"But I wish you wouldn't."

"Ah! You are afraid of a bit of competition, eh?" Percy smirked.

"_Competition?_" Holmes scoffed incredulously. "From _you_?"

"Of course, m'dear sir. You fear I may have…" he dropped his voice to a whisper, his blue eyes dancing. "…_skills_."

Sherlock Holmes burst into a fit of laughter. "Unless a criminal _cravat_ murdered the man, I highly doubt it."

Blakeney suddenly made a face. "Lud! You're not going out in _that_, are you?"

Holmes' eyes narrowed. "Excuse me?"

"That…that…gad! _Is that a hat_?"

"Yes," Holmes answered coldly. "It is my favorite cloth cap."

Percy covered his eyes. "AUGH!"

Holmes folded his arms across his chest with a sour frown. "Have you a better suggestion, Sir Percy?"

"That you burn it immediately."

Holmes laughed. "Tough cookies, Sir Percy. I'm still going to wear it."

Sir Percy looked as if he were stifling a laugh. "Fine, sir. But I do believe I should still come."

"Why?"

Percy smirked as he straightened his lace sleeves. "To ward off people trying to steal that highly coveted piece of fashion."

Holmes glared at him. "Funny, Blakeney. But I believe you should remain here."

"But, sir," Sir Percy drawled unaffectedly as he wandered into another room. "I shall be so demmed bored otherwise."

"We won't be long, Sir- GAH!" Holmes cried, spying where Blakeney had gone.

"What are these demmed things, Holmes?"

"DON'T TOUCH MY CHEMICALS!"

"Oh, do you mean medicine?" Percy lifted a glass jar and swirled the liquid about in it.

"They're for-" Holmes began irritably.

Blakeney snatched up an oddly shaped beaker. "Oh goody. I suddenly have this horrid, splitting headache that I wish to be rid of and-"

"PUT THAT DOWN!"

"You seemed rather distressed, my dear chap."

"YOU… ARE…TOUCHING…MY…STUFF."

"Well, dem it all, sir. Would you have me stare at a wall the whole evening?"

"That would be preferable. Now, out!"

Holmes quickly escorted his guest from the room and locked the door behind him. "Please, Sir Percy. Amuse yourself, by all means, but in the study, if you will."

Leaving Percy in said study, Holmes marched into another room to inquire after the whereabouts of the doctor, who, incidentally, could not find his revolver.

"Watson, quickly! The game's afoot!"

The doctor, already frustrated at losing his trusty weapon, was not in the mood to be rushed. "Really, Holmes. The man's already dead. He can wait a moment for me to find my trusty weapon."

Holmes stood in the doorway, tapping his foot. Actually, it was more like stomping. "Watson, is there any _other _trusty weapon that you have at hand?"

"I have a blowgun from India."

"Perfect. Bring that."

And so the dynamic duo returned to the study. A study that was, strangely, quite empty.

"Where is that infernal fellow?" Holmes growled, glancing swiftly about the room.

"Perhaps he has retired for the night."

Holmes sighed, pulling his hat tighter over his head. "No matter, we shall deal with him later. Quick, Watson! There's no time to lose!"

And so they raced outside into the foggy night and down to the awaiting carriage. "I hope Sir Percy leaves the place in one piece," Holmes muttered to his companion as they took their seats opposite Lestrade.

"You needn't worry about _that_," a voice drawled from beside the Inspector. Sir Percy smiled his famous inane smile as he observed Holmes and Watson through his quizzing glass.

Watson chuckled to himself.

Holmes buried his face in his hands.


	5. Of Dead Dudes and Dialogue

Percy Blakeney glanced impatiently out the window of the covered carriage. His blue eyes flicked across to his two new companions, who were in deep conversation about some matter of importance.

A matter consisting of the maximum distance a dart could be shot from a blowgun.

"I tell you Holmes, back in the regiment, I could hit a man at twenty meters at least!" Watson was insisting.

Holmes sniffed. "It would depend on the strength of a man's respiratory muscles," he answered simply.

"Are you doubting the integrity of my lungs?" Watson queried incredulously.

"Ahem," Blakeney cleared his throat, tapping his eyeglass restlessly.

"Not at all, Watson," Holmes consoled. "The wind might have helped the dart along."

The doctor frowned. "You cannot seriously think-"

"Ahem," Blakeney repeated.

"It's all a small matter of physics, Watson. You must account for the velocity of the wind, the precise angle of your weapon, the-"

"AHEM."

"Our friend appears to have something in his throat," Watson observed to Holmes.

Holmes frowned at the newcomer across from him, then turned back to the doctor. "I'm sure he'll be fine. Now, as I was saying, it is-"

"I SAID 'AHEM', YOU DEAF DETECTIVE!"

Holmes pursed his lips together. "You wish to say something, Sir Percy?"

"Yes. I wish to educate you on a matter of importance."

Holmes blinked. "And what would that be?"

"Sink me, but NO ONE CARES."

Somewhere in the darkness of the carriage, the inspector chuckled.

"Don't chuckle, Lestrade," Holmes snapped. "It will only encourage him."

"I say," Blakeney continued, his good humor restored. "Is this demmed carriage moving at _all_?"

"This is how one drives in London," the detective sighed, exasperated.

"It's not how _I _drive in London," the tall Englishman countered. "Sink me, if they won't have the fellow already buried by the time we arrive!"

"What would you suggest we do, Sir Percy?" Holmes glowered, his fingers twitching in his lap.

"That we fire the driver."

Sherlock Holmes cocked an eyebrow. "Really. And then the carriage will drive itself."

Blakeney's smile widened. "No, no, my overly-sarcastic, no-fun-whatsoever-detective-friend. _I _shall drive."

"Heaven forbid."

* * *

Inside a little house on Carlton Street, our company found the scene of the crime (or at least the scene of the dead body) in the main library of the richly furnished mansion.

"This is Mr. Lyle Levi Lemminglyson," Lestrade indicated the body stretched across the rug. At a word from Holmes, the other Scotland Yard officials filed out of the room.

"Demmed hard name to say," Sir Percy observed.

Holmes threw Blakeney a sharp look. "Indeed."

Holmes knelt beside the body, motioning for Watson to do the same. The detective cast a swift, scrutinizing look over the victim. "This man's injuries seem to stem from an abruptly administered action of a bluntly engineered instrument which incited damage upon the exterior epidermis of the anterior sector of the cranial nerves about the foramen magnum, leading to intense and utterly irreparable injury to the dendrites of the outer nervous tissue and causing excessive loss of sanguinary fluids ultimately leading to the ending of his vital processes."

Watson thought a moment. "No, it looks more like the man was killed by a blunt force to the head."

Holmes blinked. "I just said that."

"Oh. Could you repeat that last part?"

"No." Holmes turned to Sir Percy. "And what do_ you_ think happened, Blakeney?"

"It was Lyle, in the library, with the lead pipe," Blakeney rejoined pleasantly.

"I'm surrounded by idiots," Holmes muttered to himself. He straightened from his stooped position, his eyes still fixed upon the body. "Alright, gentlemen. Let us review what we know."

"He was hit on the head quite badly, he's dead, and his name is Lyle," Lestrade offered.

Holmes nodded, rubbing his hands together. "Yes, yes. I believe I have almost enough evidence to solve this case."

"Do tell," Blakeney spoke as he began pacing slowly about the room.

"I can't," the detective replied mysteriously. "It isn't time yet."

"Time for what?"

"For when I shall make my Glorious Revelation."

Sir Percy almost laughed. "Excuse me?"

Watson rolled his eyes. "It's when he solves the case in one sentence while simultaneously making the rest of us seem like hopeless idiots incapable of any real thought past that of the obvious which we, in turn, cannot even pick up from the series of clues that he NEVER SHARES WITH US UNTIL THE END OF THE CASE."

"My dear Watson, you seem rather bitter," Holmes noted.

"Absolutely not," the doctor muttered.

Holmes shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his overcoat as his keen gaze scanned the room. "Now. We must examine this little study and garner from it what clues we can, before we interview the inhabitants of this house."

Blakeney was suddenly animated as he walked briskly across the room to where the three other men stood. "Where do we start, you fellows?"

Holmes made a small choking noise, but managed to present his guest with a terribly forced smile. "Why, Sir Percy, you wouldn't want to be involved in this boring routine investigation."

Blakeney grinned widely. "I assure you, I wish to be of the utmost service. I shan't be bored in the least."

"I'll use big words," Holmes threatened darkly.

"Then I'll speak in French," Blakeney shot back.

Holmes glared at him from beneath his cloth cap, his mouth twitching visibly. "French?" he inquired shakily.

"_Vous pariez, mon ami ennuyé_," Sir Percy chirped.

"Enough!" the detective exclaimed desperately. "Very well! You may aid us."

"_Merci_. _Vous êtes trop gentil._"

"KNOCK IT OFF, BLAKENEY!"


	6. Of Meals and Magnifying Glasses

_**Well, you might as well forget these characters' Canon from now on. Leave it FAR BEHIND, my friends, and enjoy the freedommmmm.**_

_**

* * *

**_"Don't touch that, Blakeney," came Holmes's voice from where he lay on the floor, examining the wood flooring around Lyle the Murder Victim. "Unless you want your fingerprints found at the scene of the crime, that is."

Sir Percy backed away from the mantelpiece and collapsed into a nearby chair, watching the detective scour the scene. His blue eyes suddenly lit up. "Sink me, m'dear fellow, but that is a monstrous eyeglass!"

Holmes paused and craned his neck back to look at his newest companion. "Eyeglass?"

"You see, I have one too!" Percy was suddenly on his knees, showing the detective his favorite foppish accessory. "Strange! Why is yours not strung around your neck?"

Holmes snorted. "Em, I believe you are mistaken. This is a _magnifying_ glass."

"Oh, is that what they are called these days?"

"No, they are quite separate entities. I have no idea what your little…uh, lense thingie…is for."

Sir Percy looked utterly taken aback. "Why, Holmes! It's for looking through and saying 'sink meh'!"

"Rather useless thing to have."

Because Holmes had resumed analyzing the floor, he did not catch the anger flash in the tall Englishman's fiery blue eyes. And thus, he had no time to prepare for what was coming.

"_Useless?_" Percy's voice squeaked out of sheer fury.

Holmes looked up again and started. "Why, Blakeney, I was only saying-"

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN BY 'USELESS'?"

"Come down here," Holmes said quietly, gesturing for Percy to study the floor as he was. Percy complied and rested on his stomach across from Holmes, his eyeglass still at hand.

"Put your lense to your eye and tell me what you see," the detective ordered.

"I see a rather unpleasant fellow who has no appreciation for the finer points of English fashion."

"NOT ME, you idiotic person!"

But Blakeney wasn't paying attention. He was studying the area of the wooden floor in front of him with his own eyeglass. "Gad_zooks_! What a mess of blood!"

Holmes smiled a patronizing little smile. "Ah, you saw all that through your little eye lense, eh?"

"But it's not _all_ blood."

"Yes, Blakeney, I believe there is a wood floor in there somewhere."

Percy sighed. "No, no, you insulting detective, there is a bit of dried substance right here." He pointed to a minutely dark stain before him.

Holmes was at once keenly interested. He scooted forward to examine Percy's discovery with his magnifying glass. A moment later, he gasped, "Heavens, but I had not seen that! How did you…?"

Blakeney smiled widely as he waved his quizzing glass in front of the detective's face.

Holmes scowled. "Well, then, a lucky discovery for you, my friend. We should take a sample back to Baker Street, as it appears to be a chemical stain of some sort."

"SINK ME!" Percy had scooted around to the other side of the body and stopped, staring at the floor through his eye lense.

"What is it?" Holmes prodded as he joined him.

"A bit of blade, perhaps?" Blakeney gingerly plucked a tip of metal from a crack in the floorboards.

Holmes blinked. "How did I _miss_ that?"

"Beats me, old fellow, but there's blood on it," Percy mumbled, still scooting about.

Holmes stared closer at the piece of metal. "That's…_correct_," he murmured incredulously. He began adding the clues up in his mind, a strange collection of evidence that he had not perceived before.

Percy had managed to scoot himself across the entire room on his stomach, still peering through his quizzing glass. "GAD!" he cried suddenly. "Scuff marks!"

Holmes rushed to where his companion lay and bent down for a better look. "Where?"

Percy began pointing. "Here. Here. Here. And here. Here. Here. And here. Over there a bit. And some right there. And here. And there-"

"Alright! Fine! I see it already!" Holmes was clearly getting frustrated.

But Percy still scooted on.

"There's a bit of a footprint over here, Holmes. Zounds, but there are two distinct marks! If you just see right here that-"

"ENOUGH!" the detective shouted.

Percy looked up from his place on the floor. "Pardon?"

"WOULD YOU STOP SCOOTING AROUND, BLAKENEY?"

Percy laughed. "Why? Sink meh, but I'm findin' clues."

"Yes, I KNOW!"

"Well, don't you want to solve the demmed dude's murder?"

"Of course! But I want to be the one to solve it."

"Why's that?"

"Because that's how I roll."

Blakeney rose to his feet and brushed himself off. "Fine. Fine. The room's all yours, you _petit homme égotiste._"

"And stop speaking French!"

But Blakeney had already stomped out of the room.

* * *

As it turned out, the house was, in fact, a small boarding establishment with rooms to rent for travelers passing through London. The proprietor of the establishment was summoned to be interviewed first. She was a plump, older woman by the name of Maddie Webber, who wore a simple black dress, quite a sharp contrast to the silvery hair she had piled high on her head.

The body of Lyle the Murder Victim had at last been removed from the library and taken to a local mortuary. Holmes was about to conduct her to this very room for questioning, but she quickly hesitated, insisting on serving her guests an array of refreshments before they continued the investigation. Holmes and his companions obliged, and soon found themselves seated around an elegant dining room table in front of steaming plates of food. They ate with little conversation.

That is, until Blakeney made a simple comment about the dish before him.

"Odd's fish, this is good!"

Miss Webber seemed reasonably puzzled. She looked down at his plate. "I'm sorry, sir, but that is a piece of chicken."

Blakeney stiffened. _Not again. _"Yes…I know."

"But you thought it was fish?"

"No, madam."

"Then why say it was an 'odd fish'?"

"It's clearly not fish."

Miss Webber snorted. "I know that, sir! I cooked it! Can you not taste the difference?"

"It tastes like a demmed bird."

"Then why think it's a fish? Birds are not fish."

"RRRGH," Blakeney growled, stabbing his chicken with his fork.

"I'm afraid our friend has a something of a speech disadvantage," Holmes added from the end of the table. "He's a bit of a foreigner."

Blakeney shot a glare at the detective. "Oh, _no_, _sir._ I'm every bit as honest an Englishman as yourself!"

"But you are not an Englishman at this _present _time period."

"Take that back," Blakeney snapped.

"But it's true," Holmes affirmed indifferently. "Because you're-"

"Take it back before I hit you with my chicken!"

"Oh, do bring it, Blakeney."


	7. Of Accidents and Alliteration

"Now, Miss Webber, please have a seat," Holmes was saying as he conducted the landlady to a chair in the library. "Alrighty, then. Now, if you would be so kind as tell us all about your ex-boarder, uh, Mr. Lyle Levi Something-or-Other."

"Lemminglyson," Percy Blakeney corrected under his breath from where he stood next to Dr. Watson.

Holmes shot him a glance. Given, it was more of a vicious glare, really. "Yes, thank you, Blakeney," he replied in a strained voice. "Couldn't remember the man's ridiculously alliterative name for the life of me."

"Yes, well, I suppose the fellow's parents dearly loved the letter 'L'," Blakeney smiled complacently.

"Well, they should be arrested for it," Holmes huffed. "Makes it rather inconvenient at the present moment."

"What a dastardly deed to design, you demmed disdainful detective," Sir Percy chirped unaffectedly.

Sherlock Holmes' eyes narrowed. "Blakeney…"

"But lo! Let us lament how love lent Lyle a likeable label, of 'L' letters, like 'Lyle Levi Lemminglyson'! Lud! Lyle languished, lay lifeless in the library-"

"BLAKENEY…"

But Percy was on a roll. "Murder! Mire of miscreants! Mayhem makest misfortunes more mournful, more morbid! May my mind-"

"PERCY! I WILL POSITIVELY PUMMEL YOU, YOU PREPOSTEROUS PERSON!" Holmes almost screamed.

"Excellent alliteration, m'dear Holmes!"

The detective looked like he was about to kill something.

Meanwhile, Dr. Watson and the landlady had been chatting pleasantly in the corner of the room. They were seated together comfortably on a plush green couch by the bay window. Holmes recovered and strode to where they had removed themselves.

"You see this, Miss Webber?" Watson was saying, showing the woman the object in his hands. "This here is the tranquilizer blowgun that I used when I was India. You put it to your mouth like this-"

Holmes had walked up, unseen by the two people who were deep in conversation. "AHEM."

Watson started, incidentally blowing air through the weapon he had been demonstrating. Incidentally shooting a tiny dart into Miss Webber's neck. Incidentally sending her into the deep sleep of utter oblivion.

Holmes' eyes bugged. "WATSON!" he shrieked. "YOU JUST TRANQUILIZED MY WITNESS!"

"Funny that dart being in there," the doctor was muttering to himself as he inspected the guilty weapon.

On the opposite side of the room, Percy Blakeney was in the throes of an intense coughing fit. Perhaps he was hiding something. Probably riotous, uncontrollable laughter.

Never had Holmes faced so much mayhem at a crime scene. Never had so many things annoyed him to the point of utter fury. Never had he faced the brink of utter insanity. He gritted his teeth. He would not let these setbacks bother him. He was Mr. Sherlock Holmes, after all.

"All right, fellows," the detective growled as he pointed at his companions. "Go sit in the two chairs over there."

"Why, Holmes?" the doctor asked, abashed.

"Because I'm putting you two in time out."

"_Time out_?" Blakeney folded his arms and cocked an eyebrow.

"Yes. For the next hour you cannot talk, sing, move, gesticulate, whisper, cough, laugh, cry, alliterate, be annoying, interrupt, play with weapons, or smile."

"Sink me! Then what _can_ we do?"

"You may breathe."

Blakeney rolled his eyes. "Oh goody."

And so Holmes began interviewing his second witness, while the doctor and the dandy sat by themselves in the corner of the room. The man, by the name of Sir Sidney P. Edwards, was a tall, finely dressed gentleman with a neatly trimmed moustache, who took his time descending the steps from his upstairs lodgings.

"Please sit on that sofa, Sir Sidney," Holmes said politely, then slapped his forehead.

Damn that Blakeney and his contagious obsession with alliteration.

The detective took a deep breath and began slowly. "Sir Sidney, did you know Lyle the Murder Victim?"

The man looked puzzled. "Of course, everyone knew him!"

"Why's that?"

"You don't think we can recognize a dead body, Mr. Holmes?"

"No, no, no! I meant _before _Lyle kicked the bucket."

"Oh. Um, no. Uh, can't say that I did. I just began lodging here two days ago and have never met the chap before in my life."

"Oh really?" Holmes inquired suspiciously.

"Really."

"You sure?"

"Really sure."

"And where were you when you first heard of Lyle's death?"

"In my room. I thought I heard a man shouting in the library, so I rushed down here, but he was already gone, poor fellow." Sir Sidney looked rather pained at the memory.

Holmes nodded. "Interesting. Now tell me-"

A voice from the corner of the room suddenly interrupted the detective.

"No, no, Watson, Paper beats Rock."

"Nuh-uh."

"Yeah-huh. The demmed thing wraps Rock up."

"But suppose Rock crushes Paper."

"It can't be crushed! Paper's demmed _flat_!"

"What…are…you….DOING?" Holmes asked between clenched teeth.

"Sink meh, we're playing Rock-Paper-Scissors."

"_WHY?"_

"Well, Watson and I got a bit bored after making up our secret handshake, so we decided to-"

Holmes began banging his head on the nearby wall. "Why _me_? _WHY ME_?"


	8. Of Recreation and Revenge

Holmes had just returned from an unsuccessful search of the upstairs rooms, and now found the evening coming to a rather annoying standstill. The landlady was still unconscious, most of the boarders were in bed for the night, and the detective now found his assistant distracted by that infernal Englishman, _yet again. _Leave them alone for ten minutes…

"King me!"

"Watson! Would you and Blakeney kindly _stop playing checkers_?"

"But Holmes! I was just-"

Holmes was tapping his foot. "You were just _what_,Watson?"

Percy Blakeney flashed Holmes a grin before clicking a game piece across the board. "Just bored out of his demmed mind, the poor chap. He doesn't have enough fun, by the looks of it, Holmes."

"Oh, I did not realize, Sir Percy, that investigations were supposed to be _fun_."

Percy's eyes sparked with a mischievous gleam. "Gad, sir, but scootin' around and findin' clues was immense amusement, what?"

Holmes' eyes narrowed. "Yes, your skills at observation have proved most annoying."

"Tut! Well, aren't you a merry fellow," Percy smirked as he turned his attention back to the board game.

"It's not my job to be _merry_, Sir Percy_._"

Blakeney leaned over the checkerboard and patted his opponent's shoulder. "Poor, poor Dr. Watson, having to live with Captain Fun all the time."

The detective rolled his eyes. "Oh very funny, Blakeney. I know what fun _is_."

Sir Percy's face twisted into a sour grimace. "Oh, _do_ let's get back home so we can mix some _chemicals_! Gad, the excitement!"

Holmes gritted his teeth at this insult of one of his favorite hobbies, but suddenly a smug smile spread slowly across his face. "Yes," he replied slowly. "The _excitement._"

Blakeney frowned slightly at this. Why was Holmes still smirking? What was he planning…?

"Come along, Watson! Blakeney! Let us leave Lestrade and his friends to wrap things up for tonight. We'll be back tomorrow." And Holmes, after bidding the Scotland Yard officials a brisk goodnight, led the way back to where the carriage waited in the street below. As Watson seated himself across from the detective, Holmes suddenly frowned. "Where is Blakeney?"

The answer came from outside. Somewhere near the roof of the carriage a familiar voice shouted out, "Gid'up!" followed by a hearty laugh as the horses sprang forward at breakneck speed.

Holmes' eyes widened as he recognized the voice. "Oh…God…"

Sherlock Holmes was not particularly fond of instances where his life (successful though it was) flashed before his eyes, and this was no different. The carriage was soon careening violently through the London streets, whirling past the slower hansoms and away from frightened groups of screaming pedestrians.

"I say, Holmes," Watson was laughing, as he slid from one end of the carriage to the other. "How's this for fun?"

"THIS IS NOT-" The carriage suddenly took a sharp left turn, shifting itself onto its two left wheels. Holmes was thrown from his seat and struck the side of the coach with sickening force. "ARGH!"

Then the detective promptly slid to the floor with a groan.

"Oh come _on_, Holmes!" Watson chastised. "You're not having any fun! Loosen up a bit and-"

"I THINK I BROKE SOMETHING, YOU THRILL-SEEKING DOCTOR!"

"Your pride?"

"More like my_ nose!_"

Suddenly, a most peculiar song reached their ears, muffled by the carriage's walls. "Home! Home on the Range! Where the…"

"Now he's_ singing?" _the detective sputtered incredulously, covering his bleeding nose with his handkerchief.

"What an catchy little ditty," the doctor commented airily, listening intently to the lyrics of Blakeney's beloved riding tune. The coach wheeled swiftly around another corner, sending the detective crashing against the opposite wall.

"_I am going to kill that fop!_" Holmes snarled from where he lay on the floor. "Positively kill-"

"Now Holmes, we don't need _two_ murder cases on our hands, do we?" the doctor smirked, patting his friend's shoulder.

"It wouldn't be murder," Holmes snapped back. "It would be _JUSTICE_."

The coach suddenly came to a jolting halt, and as Holmes lifted himself from the floor and back onto his seat, he peered out the window into the rolling night fog. They were back on Baker Street.

Suddenly two blue eyes appeared at the window. "Sink meh, but that was jolly exciting!" Blakeney's voice sang from outside the carriage.

Holmes flew at the door in a sudden fury, but was pulled back by the peace-loving Dr. Watson. Holmes growled, but collapsed stiffly back into his seat.

Blakeney swung the door open and slapped the doctor's shoulder with a laugh. "_That_, m'dear fellow,is how one drives in London, what?"

"Ah, Blakeney!" Watson chuckled good-humoredly. "A most exhilarating experience! Haven't had such excitement since I was in India."

"He is _so dead_," Holmes hissed from within the carriage.

"What's that, m'dear fellow?" Blakeney called back.

"He says he wishes to go to bed," Watson answered quickly. "Been a rather long day, don't you think, Blakeney?"

Percy yawned loudly. "Immensely, m'dear doctor. I'm so demmed fatigued."

Watson did not like the odd smile that crept onto Holmes' face, or the way his gray eyes glinted when Blakeney yawned again. The doctor groaned inwardly. He had seen that look before.

Sherlock Holmes was plotting revenge.

*****

Percy Blakeney was having a grand ol' time, riding at lightning speed across the English countryside, belting out his favorite riding song as his horse darted in and out of the trees of a hilly stretch of land. "Where seldom is hearrrrrrrrd…" Suddenly, the melody was taken up by a musician who began playing along to his singing words.

Wait. What was a violin doing in his dream?

Blakeney yanked the reins to the left and spurred his horse farther into the forest. He sang louder, but the violin matched him, playing expert little variations of the tune while increasing the tempo as it went. The song raced faster, faster,_ faster_…

"I CAN'T SING THAT FAST, YOU DEMMED VIOLIN!" Percy shouted, breaking out of his once-pleasant dream and sitting up in bed.

"Oh, but I believe you can," a voice countered from the corner of the room.

Blakeney started as he made out the form of Sherlock Holmes reclining lazily in a chair, his feet propped up on the mantelpiece, a violin resting under his chin.

"What…are you doing…in my bedroom?" Blakeney growled.

"I heard you singing in your sleep and thought you might like a little accompaniment."

Sir Percy glared at the detective. "You ruined my dream."

"No, _this _would have ruined your dream." And from the violin came an ear-piercing set of shrieks that somehow resembled Blakeney's favorite ditty.

"ARGH! Stop it, Holmes!"

The violin stopped its grating. Then quickly lapsed into a lively square dance tune.

"I _HATE_ SQUARE DANCE MUSIC!" Blakeney shrieked, but the song grew even louder, and then halted again. Percy leapt from the bed and stumbled toward the corner of the room, but the musician had gone from his chair. Where-

The song resumed from where Holmes was now lounging on the windowsill, the violin singing out as the detective played the annoying melody with admirable expertise.

"STOP IT, I SAY!" Blakeney yelled as he rushed through the dark room toward the window, but found the space strangely empty. The room was suddenly filled with such a tranquil silence that the tall Englishman wondered if this episode had been some weird figment of his imagination.

"What a horrid nightmare," Percy groaned, collapsing back onto the bed and burying himself beneath the sheets.

"Tsk, Blakeney, but I believe you just uttered a discouraging word," a voice laughed from the foot of the bed. Percy sat up to see Holmes balancing himself across the narrow footboard, stretched out on his back, his violin still tucked beneath his chin.

"OFF MY BED, YOU PEST!" Percy snarled as he shoved the detective off his footboard with savage energy.

The violin began playing Taps from the floor.

"_I am going to kill you, Sherlock Holmes!" _


	9. Of Wake Up Calls and Wardrobe Changes

Percy Blakeney groaned groggily as a point of light suddenly drew near his face from out of the surrounding darkness. He squeezed his eyes shut tighter and rolled over, but there it was again, irritating his already fitful bout of sleep. He pried his eyes open and beheld a single flame dancing before his eyes.

"Wake up, Blakeney! The game's afoot!"

Percy squinted at the tall figure behind the candle. "The game's a-what?"

"Afoot."

"What foot?"

"_A_foot."

"Just one foot?"

"_What_?"

"Why a foot?"

"Because that's the situation, you fop!"

"So you're telling me that some game is a foot."

"Yes! And we-"

"You speak nonsense, Holmes." And with that Percy flopped down on his stomach and buried his blond head beneath his pillow with a tired grunt.

An angry growl escaped the lips of Sherlock Holmes, who promptly swept out of the room and stomped into the neighboring chamber.

Blakeney had begun to drift off again, but was suddenly jolted awake by a voice bellowing from next door. "Watson! I said _GET UP_!" And then he came back, stamping across the wooden floor even louder than before.

Blakeney carefully considered his dire situation: he wanted more sleep, and Holmes obviously didn't wish to waste another second in letting him indulge in sweet unconsciousness. How did Watson stand this, day after day? Percy smiled to himself. Rebellion was in order.

"BLAKENEY! STOP ROLLING YOURSELF INTO A BLANKET BURRITO!" The detective yelled, stepping forward to yank away the sheets. But Blakeney had twisted himself into a tight cocoon of warm quilts, and was once again dead to the world.

Sherlock Holmes changed direction again, stalking back to the doctor's room with a snarl of impatience. "FOR THE LAST TIME, WATSON, GET OUT OF BED, OR SO HELP ME, I WILL SMOTHER YOU WITH YOUR OWN PILLOWS!"

This time the doctor did stumble from his bed, and followed the stomping Holmes back into Blakeney's room.

"Watson, he won't get up!" the detective complained loudly, gesturing to the bed in exasperation.

"Has that ever really stopped you?" Watson grumbled, passing a hand through his unkempt hair. He sighed. Holmes's methods of waking him up had become increasingly ungracious as of late.

"What do you propose we do, doctor?"

Watson rolled his eyes as he adjusted his morning coat. "Perhaps _leave him be_?"

"No, Watson, no! That won't do at all! Ah! But I believe there is a simple solution to this dilemma."

"And what is that?"

"That we should jump on his bed."

"What! With him in it?"

"Of course! He couldn't very well sleep through _that_, now could he?"

The doctor stared incredulously at his friend. His eccentric, morning-person friend. "Couldn't you shake him awake or something, Holmes?"

"No, Watson. As you can plainly observe, he has rolled himself up in numerous quilts and is now impervious to such an attack. We must be more straightforward in our waking methods."

"By jumping up and down on him."

"Precisely."

"You're being ridiculous, Holmes. Why don't you just ask him to get up?"

Holmes rolled his eyes and strode purposefully over to Sir Percy's bedside. Leaning down, he hissed, "Would you be so kind, Sir Percy, as to get your lazy self up this fine morning and join us on our urgent trip across London?"

A muffled but firm "No" came from beneath the covers. Holmes returned to Watson, a satisfied smile on his face.

"But Holmes," the doctor queried, a puzzled expression crossing his face. "I thought you didn't wish him to come! Why go through all this trouble when-"

"My dear Watson, I simply _cannot_ trust him here."

"Why? He seems a perfectly fine and trustworthy gentleman!"

"I have very good reason to believe that he wishes to get even with me." Holmes grimaced, turning his back to the doctor. "I fear he will take my violin hostage while I'm gone."

"Ha! You woke him up with it last night, didn't you?"

"He deserved it," the detective responded coolly. "And I'll do it again if he ever drives a cab-"

The doctor could take it no more. "Holmes! What's all this about, waking everyone up at such an hour?"

"Murder, Watson! That landlady has seen her last!"

"The landlady! Miss Webber?"

"Yes, found dead in the very same library."

"Odd's life, man!" Blakeney shouted, as he suddenly burst forth from his fortress of covers. "Why didn't you say so?"

Holmes blinked, then stared curiously at the newly awakened man. "Oh, but I did, Blakeney."

"No, you were talking about some sort of game."

"Yes, I said that the game was afoot."

Blakeney frowned. "There you go again! What _foot_? What game? It _was_ a foot? Then what is it _now_?"

"IT'S A FIGURE OF SPEECH, YOU EIGHTEENTH CENTURY FOP! THE GAME IS _MURDER_! HOW ELSE CAN I SAY IT?"

Blakeney smiled complacently as he leaned back against the pillows. "Perhaps you could say it in French."

Holmes turned on his heel to leave, then paused and looked over his shoulder with a smirk.

"_Levez-vous_, Blakeney, _ou je vous étoufferai avec un oreiller_."* And with that, he firmly shut the door behind him, followed closely by the doctor at his heels.

"What did you say to him, Holmes?"

The detective's smile broadened. "I told him that we shall be waiting for him presently in the cab. Get dressed quickly, Watson, and kindly slip your revolver into your coat pocket on your way out."

"I still haven't found it, Holmes."

"It's still missing? Oh, Watson! Why? _Why_?"

"It's this infernal mess you keep about the house! Papers! Pipes! I can't find one thing without losing another!"

Holmes sighed, then leaned well over the banister of the stairwell. "MRS. HUDSON!" he bellowed down. "MRS. HUDSONNNNNN! FIND WATSON'S REVOLVER!"

"What if she can't find it, Holmes?" the doctor retorted, arms crossed.

"Then kindly bring along the fire poker."

"The _what_? Why can't I br-"

"YOU ARE NOT BRINGING THE BLOW GUN."

* * *

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Blakeney!"

The tall Englishman had just settled beside the detective inside the carriage in a flourish of well-tailored lace. He turned a beaming face upon Holmes as he simultaneously adjusted the cravat about his neck with nimble fingers.

"Sink meh, Captain Fun, but what is it?"

Sherlock Holmes's face was one of utter disgust. "Blakeney, _must_ you suffocate me with all your accessories of lace?"

"La! I see that you are terribly jealous of my impeccable fashion, what?"

"Right," Holmes replied flatly. "Please, kindly take off your jacket, Blakeney. The sun reflecting off your blue shimmered coat is quite blinding me."

Percy glanced down at his overcoat and gasped. "Gah! A speck of dust!" And he immediately reached to remedy the situation and brush said dust into oblivion. However, in doing so his coat sleeve caught the early morning sun streaming through the window.

"AUGH!"

Blakeney started and turned halfway back around. "What are you yelling about, Holmes?"

"Can't…see…" came a gasping voice.

Blakeney returned to his work, his clothing again flashing in the light.

"STOP MOVING, BLAKENEY! YOUR CLOTHES ARE HURTING MY EYES!"

"Lud! Then what am I to do, you picky detective?"

Holmes thumped the ceiling of the carriage with his cane. "Stop the cab! Cabbie! Return to Baker Street this instant!"

Watson, who had been watching this scene with quiet amusement, threw the detective a puzzled glance. "What is it, Holmes?"

Holmes's eyes narrowed. "Sir Percy Blakeney is going to be dressed properly before we go out. As a respectable nineteenth century Englishman in _black_."

*_Translation: "Get up, Blakeney, or I will stifle you with a pillow."_


	10. Of Glue and Grouchy Gals

"I wonder if our friend shall ever speak again," Sherlock Holmes wondered aloud as the cab rattled once again away from Baker Street and flew around a corner at breakneck speed.

Sir Percy Blakeney only glared across the cab at the detective, then turned to face the window without a word.

"Holmes, must you insist on annoying every man you do not get along with?" Watson chided, his brow furrowed at Holmes's triumphant smirk.

"Sir Percy looks rather dashing in black, don't you think, Watson?" Holmes continued, his gray eyes dancing with amusement.

Then Sir Percy Blakeney, in an unprecedented moment in foppish history, blew up. "I LOOK LIKE MONSIEUR CHAMBERTIN!" he yelled, exasperated.

"Ah, you mean Monsieur _Chauvelin_," Holmes corrected with a smile. "Your long-avowed enemy, as I recall, and chief agent of the French Republic, known for his fondness of black attire, who has on many occasions-"

"I KNOW WHO HE IS, YOU SMARTY PANTS DETECTIVE!"

"There is no need to shout, Sir Percy. I quite conceive your hatred of the finer points of our modest nineteenth century fashion."

"Demmed right, _sir,_ and I-" Blakeney suddenly stopped, his face blanching as his hands flew to his throat. "Where is my cravat?"

Holmes responded by presenting him with a hand mirror.

Percy's eyes bugged. "AUGH! WHAT IS _THIS_?"

Sherlock Holmes looked at him innocently, the aura of an angelic halo about his head. "Why, I thought you of all people, Blakeney, would recognize a cravat when you saw one," he replied serenely.

"A _CRAVAT?" _the fop sputtered, tugging furiously at the tie of black cloth about his neck. "This is deplorable, sir! Horrid! I demand you aid me in removing it!"

Holmes's innocent, angelic gaze shifted to the window. "I'm afraid that is impossible."

"You lie!"

The detective merely waved this accusation away as if it were of little importance. "I fear I cannot easily remove the generous amount of adhesive that now binds your cravat to-"

"YOU GLUED IT TO MY SHIRT?"

"A brilliant deduction, my good man," Holmes returned with a grin. "Your new sense of fashion, shall we say, will remain firmly_ intact_."

"Holmes, that's not nice," Dr. Watson said, jabbing his friend in the side with his elbow.

"Come Watson, is it not you who is always telling me to have…oh, what is the word? _Fun_?"

"Not at another's expense!"

The detective looked thoughtful. "Ah yes. Like that time I tied your shoelaces together and measured the length of your stride in direct correlation to the velocity of your falling down."

Watson's eyes narrowed at the memory. "And I trust your results were informative?"

Holmes patted his friend on the shoulder. "No, I learned nothing whatsoever from the experiment. Except that it was quite entertaining to watch you try and chase me in your sudden fury. Now, gentlemen! I believe we have arrived at our destination."

The doctor and Blakeney exchanged a look, which Sherlock Holmes would have been wise to observe.

*****

"It seems, Mr. Lestrade, that this house has a knack for killing people," Percy Blakeney commented to the Scotland Yard detective as the company gathered around the body of the late landlady. "It is unfortunate that Miss Webber was woefully wounded and whilst-"

Holmes's hand clapped swiftly over his companion's mouth. "Please ignore my annoying poetic friend, Lestrade. You remember Blakeney? We can't leave him at home by himself."

"I see," the policeman said, obviously enjoying the detective's exasperation. "He must continue to be a valuable asset to your investigating process."

Holmes made a choking noise. "You have no idea."

"Holmes, it seems the landlady has the exact same injuries that Lyle the Murder Victim had," the good doctor pronounced from where he was examining the victim on the floor.

"I knew that already but thank you, Watson."

"What?"

"The murders are obviously connected. Same room. Same injuries. And I suspect there is the same strange stain somewhere on the floor that we found near Lyle the _First_ Murder Victim."

"You mean the stain that _I _found," the tall Englishman corrected.

"We work as a team, Sir Percy, so we share credit," Holmes sniffed haughtily. Meanwhile, Dr. Watson began coughing uncontrollably from the floor.

"Stop that sarcasm, Watson, and come along. We have work to do elsewhere."

Inspector Lestrade stared as the detective sprinted for the door. "Why, you've barely looked at the scene, Mr. Holmes!"

Sherlock Holmes turned and cocked his head to the side. "Is that gentleman we met last time here, Lestrade? A man by the name of Sir Sidney P. Edwards?"

"I haven't seen him all day."

"Just as I suspected." And with that, Holmes flew out the door, with the doctor and fop in tow.

*****

Unfortunately, in the process of flying out the door, Sherlock Holmes found himself also flying into the person waiting just outside the entrance of the house.

"ACK! _A woman_!" the detective squeaked and immediately recoiled, brushing himself off vigorously as if a malevolent germ had accosted him.

The woman peered through narrow eyes at the three men before her. "Gentlemen, have any of you seen a Sir Sidney Edwards here recently?" she said in a cold voice.

"Our friend here spoke with him yesterday," Sir Percy replied as he gestured to the detective with a smile and winked at Watson.

"What!" The woman rushed toward Sherlock Holmes and clutched at his frock coat in a sudden passion. "Have you truly seen him?"

"ACKK! YOU ARE INVADING MY PERSONAL BUBBLE!" shrieked the detective, trying his best to ward off this sudden emotional attack by the woman, but only succeeding in toppling them both over.

"Where did you last talk with him?" the lady persisted harshly.

"_GET OFF OF ME_!"

"Not until you tell me where he's gone! Secrets! I know he has them! He must have told you something!"

Holmes clutched at the ground, trying his best to scoot away from his attacker. "LET GO OF MY LEG, YOU DEVIL WOMAN!"

"Now, now, Holmes," Sir Percy chided in between suppressed giggles. "That's no way to talk to a lady."

By now Holmes had freed himself and struggled to his feet, panting. He cast a wary glance at Sir Percy as he graciously helped the woman up. At once, a change came over the lady.

"I-I am so sorry," she said haltingly, her eyes still locked on the gentleman before her. "That was very untoward of me. I cannot imagine why I-"

"'Tis quite all right, m'lady," Blakeney returned kindly. He gestured to his two other companions. "Perhaps we may answer your questions this evening? We have some of our own to ask of you. I believe my sitting room may be more comfortable than this ghastly house."

"I shall be delighted to come," the lady acquiesced instantly, a flush coming to her cheeks. "And your address, sir?"

"Ah, but may I bring you there? You have been troubled enough today, I am sure."

The woman nodded, blushing deeper. "That would be most kind of you."

"Would six o'clock do?"

"Quite. I shall await you at the corner of the Strand, as I have some business there this afternoon. May I thank you, Mr…?"

"Sir Percy Blakeney, at your service," he replied, as he bowed low and flashed her a brilliant smile.

The woman giggled girlishly and bid the three men a good day.

"Ye gods, Blakeney!' Watson laughed. "A kindly gentleman indeed! What a change came over her!"

Sir Percy struck a dashing pose. "It is the duty of all us fops to be so irresistible. I simply cannot help it."

Meanwhile Holmes remained frozen where he stood, his eyes wide. "You…invited that rogue woman…_to my_ _house_?"

Percy snickered. "Sink meh! But of course! You want more clues, do you not?"

"She's going to touch _my stuff._"

"And we'll be one step closer to the solution, what?" Blakeney prattled on.

"She going to be near me again," Holmes shuddered. "The same room. The same _air_…"

Sir Percy grinned. "And?"

Holmes's eyes narrowed. "Watson, would you do me a favor?"

"What is it, Holmes?"

"The next time we hit someone with our hansom cab, remind me not to stop and see who it was."


End file.
